mm 

•B 


O    I  T  E,    E> 


LIBRARY  __^; 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

Dame  Judith  Anderson 


UCSB   LIBRARY 
X - 


THE  POETRY  OF  NATURE 


The  Poems  by  Emerson,  Lowell,  Longfellow, 
Holmes,  Whittier,  and  Celia  Thaxter  are 
used  by  arrangement  with.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
and  Company,  the  authorised  publishers  of 
the  works  of  those  authors 


THE  •    '       "  .- 

POETRY  OF  NATURE 

SELECTED  BY 

HENRY  VAN   DYKE 


FOR 
' COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  AMERICA 


ILLUSTRATED 


DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  MCMIX 


Printtd  in  England 


PREFACE 

THE  sixty  Nature  poems  which  I  have  chosen  are  full 
of  various  music.  They  utter  the  changing  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  are  awakened  in  the  heart  of  man 
by  the  procession  of  the  seasons,  the  alternations  of 
day  and  night,  the  balancing  of  the  clouds  and  the 
journeying  of  the  winds,  the  vision  of  the  sea  and  the 
stars,  the  silent  blossoming  and  fading  of  the  flowers, 
the  fleeting  masonry  of  the  snow,  the  flight  and  the 
return  of  our  little  brothers  of  the  air.  In  all  this 
wondrous  pageant  that  passes  before  us  we  dimly 
perceive  a  meaning  that  corresponds  to  something 
within  us.  There  are  moments  when  this  meaning 
seems  to  come  nearer,  to  flash  itself  out  more  clearly, 
almost  to  lift  the  veil  of  beautiful  form  under  which  it 
moves.  These  clearer  glimpses  are  the  inspiration  of 
the  true  poems  of  Nature.  It  is  as  if  the  great  Mother 
herself  were  waking  to  consciousness  in  her  human 
children,  and  speaking  through  their  lips  a  part  at 
least  of  that  eternal  thought  and  feeling  which  is 
transiently  embodied  in  her  visible  forms. 

Do  not  the  best  of  these  poems  always  bring  to  us, 
as  we  read  them,  at  once  a  sense  of  familiarity  and  a 
sense  of  surprise  ?  They  tell  us  something  that  belongs 


PREFACE 

to  us ;  their  message  comes  from  a  world  of  which  we 
ourselves  are  part ;  and  it  seems  as  if  we  must  have 
always  known  it.  But  the  telling  of  it  so  clearly  is  a 
sudden  gleam  of  light  falling  into  a  place  dim  with 
shadows,  and  the  newness  of  the  vision  fills  us  with  an 
exquisite  pleasure. 

Some  of  the  verses  are  but  little  lyrics,  brief  and 
delicate  wafts  of  song,  like  Herrick's  "  Daffodils  " ; 
others  are  deeper  and  stronger,  moving  with  a  long- 
drawn,  solemn  music  of  thought,  like  Wordsworth's 
"Tintern  Abbey,"  or  sweeping  us  away  with  tempest- 
tones,  like  Shelley's  "  West  Wind."  But  two  things 
I  have  sought  and  found  in  all  of  them,  simple  or 
profound.  They  are  true  to  the  facts  of  Nature, 
faithful  in  observation  of  her  works  and  ways ;  not 
daring  to  report  falsely  or  foolishly  of  birds  and 
flowers,  of  trees  and  rivers,  but  seeing  with  a  lover's 
eyes,  and  painting  with  a  lover's  hand,  loyal  to  the 
form  as  well  as  to  the  spirit.  They  are  also  clear  and 
lucid  in  their  utterance  of  the  idea  or  emotion  which  is 
their  life ;  not  shapeless  and  incoherent,  darkening  the 
face  of  Nature  by  words  without  knowledge ;  but 
illuminating  it  with  the  light  that  comes  from  a  spirit 
that  can  both  think  and  feel. 

There  are  many  other  Nature  poems  besides  these 

vi 


PREFACE 

which  are  here  gathered — some,  indeed,  of  the  most 
beautiful  have  been  written  by  living  poets.  But 
these  that  follow  are  sixty  of  the  best  songs  and 
sonnets,  odes  and  reflective  verses,  written  by  poets 
who  have  finished  their  work  and  passed  into  new 
regions.  Yet,  as  Keats  said,  they  have  also  souls  on 

earth,  and  they 

teach  us  every  day 

Wisdom^  though  fled  far  away, 

helping  to  make  the  world  more  beautiful  and  signifi- 
cant to  those  who  are  willing  to  live  with  Nature  and 
learn  of  her. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TITMOUSE.  By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  I 

THE  OAK.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  5 

THE  WHAUPS.  By  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  5 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT.  By  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  9 

NIGHT.  By  JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE  12 
UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE.  As  You  Like  It, 

ii.  v.  13 

FAIRY  LAND.  Midsummer  Nights  Dream,  u.  i.  13 

WHEN  DAISIES  PIED.  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  v.  ii.  14 
WHEN  ICICLES  HANG  BY  THE  WALL.  Love's 

Labour's  Lost,  v.  ii.  1 5 

THE  FAIRY  LIFE.  The  Tempest,  v.  i.,  i.  ii.  16 

EARLY  SPRING.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  17 

TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY.  By  ROBERT  BURNS  19 

WALDEINSAMKEIT.  By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  23 
MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I  BEHOLD.  By 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  30 

THE  SANDPIPER.  By  CELIA  THAXTER  30 

DAFFODILS.  By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  33 
HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD.  By  ROBERT 

BROWNING  35 

TO  DAFFODILS.  By  ROBERT  HERRICK  36 

THE  THROSTLE.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  37 

TO  THE    CUCKOO.     By  JOHN  LOGAN  41 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TO   A   SKYLARK.     By  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  42 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING.  By  ROBERT  HERRICK  47 
LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING.  By  WILLIAM 

WORDSWORTH  49 

ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.  By  JOHN  KEATS  51 

TO  A  WATERFOWL.  By  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  54 

THE  RHODORA.  By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  55 

THE  GARDEN.  By  ANDREW  MARVELL  56 

TO  THE  DANDELION.  By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  59 

SONG  OF  THE  BROOK.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  61 

TO  A  SKYLARK.  By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  64 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD.  By  WALT  WHITMAN  65 

SONGS  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES."  By  ROBERT  BROWNING  71 

SUMMER  DAWN.  By  WILLIAM  MORRIS  71 

TO  THE  HUMBLE-BEE.  By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  72 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY.  By  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  78 

THE  EVENING  WIND.  By  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  83 
THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON  THE  BURN.  By 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL  86 
BRIGHT  STAR  !  WOULD  I  WERE  STEADFAST  AS 

THOU  ART.  By  JOHN  KEATS  87 

DAYBREAK.  By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  88 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN.  By  SIDNEY  LANIER  89 
THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.  By  OLIVER  WENDELL 

HOLMES  95 

x 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EACH   AND  ALL.    By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  96 

IT    IS    A    BEAUTEOUS    EVENING,    CALM    AND 

FREE.  By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  98 
THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US.  By 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  99 

TINTERN  ABBEY.  By  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  100 

ODE  TO  EVENING.  By  WILLIAM  COLLINS  107 

TEARS,  IDLE  TEARS.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  in 
THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS.  By  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

LONGFELLOW  112 

TO  AUTUMN.  By  JOHN  KEATS  113 

SONG.  By  LORD  TENNYSON  115 

TO  A  MOUSE.  ROBERT  BURNS  117 
TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN.  By  WILLIAM  CXJLLEN 

BRYANT  119 

SEAWEED.  By  HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  120 

AUTUMN.  By  THOMAS  HOOD  122 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS.  By  WILLIAM 

CULLEN  BRYANT  125 
ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND.  By  PERCY  BYSSHE 

SHELLEY  13° 

NATURE.  By  HENRY  WADSWOKTH  LONGFELLOW  133 

THE  FIRST  SNOWFALL.  By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  134 
INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS.  By  WILLIAM 

WORDSWORTH  139 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
THE   SNOWSTORM.     By  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  141 

SONNET.     By  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  142 

BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND.    By  WILLIAM 

SHAKESPEARE  144 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET.    By  JOHN 

KEATS  !44 

THE    DEATH     OF    THE    OLD     YEAR.      By    LORD 
TENNYSON 


zu 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

As  a  fond  mother  when  the  day  is  o'er  Frontispiece 

All  his  leaves 

Fallen  at  length  Page    7 

Under  the  greenwood  tree  To  face  p.  14 

Waldeinsamkeit  Page  23 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 

Where  bearded  mists  divide  „     27 

Daffodils  „    33 

Fair  Daffodils  „     39 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan  To  face  p.  50 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 

ways  „         52 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever  „         62 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine  „         64 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers  Page  75 

The  Evening  Wind  „     83 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me  !  "            To  face  p.  88 

Glooms  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and 

woven  „         92 

Ode  to  Evening  Page  107 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns      To  face  p.  112 

Song  Page  115 

Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks  To  face  p.  120 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn  „         122 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the 

autumn  leaves  lie  dead  Page  127 

Heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white  „       137 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  To  face  p.  144 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year  Page  145 


xiv 


THE  TITMOUSE 

You  shall  not  be  overbold 

When  you  deal  with  arctic  cold, 

As  late  I  found  my  lukewarm  blood 

Chilled  wading  in  the  snow-choked  wood. 

How  should  I  fight  ?  my  foeman  fine 

Has  million  arms  to  one  of  mine  : 

East,  west,  for  aid  I  looked  in  vain, 

East,  west,  north,  south,  are  his  domain. 

Miles  off,  three  dangerous  miles,  is  home  ; 

Must  borrow  his  winds  who  there  would  come. 

Up  and  away  for  life  !  be  fleet ! — 

The  frost-king  ties  my  fumbling  feet, 

Sings  in  my  ears,  my  hands  are  stones, 

Curdles  the  blood  to  the  marble  bones, 

Tugs  at  the  heart-strings,  numbs  the  sense, 

And  hems  in  life  with  narrowing  fence. 

Well,  in  this  broad  bed  lie  and  sleep, — 

The  punctual  stars  will  vigil  keep, — 

Embalmed  by  purifying  cold ; 

The  winds  shall  sing  their  dead-march  old, 

The  snow  is  no  ignoble  shroud, 

The  moon  thy  mourner,  and  the  cloud. 

Softly, — but  this  way  fate  was  pointing, 
'Twas  coming  fast  to  such  anointing, 
When  piped  a  tiny  voice  hard  by, 
Gay  and  polite,  a  cheerful  cry, 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Chic-chicadeedee  I  saucy  note 
Out  of  sound  heart  and  merry  throat, 
As  if  it  said,  "  Good-day,  good  sir  ! 
Fine  afternoon,  old  passenger  ! 
Happy  to  meet  you  in  these  places, 
Where  January  brings  few  faces." 

This  poet,  though  he  live  apart, 

Moved  by  his  hospitable  heart, 

Sped,  when  I  passed  his  sylvan  fort, 

To  do  the  honours  of  his  court, 

As  fits  a  feathered  lord  of  land  ; 

Flew  near,  with  soft  wing  grazed  my  hand, 

Hopped  on  the  bough,  then,  darting  low, 

Prints  his  small  impress  on  the  snow, 

Shows  feats  of  his  gymnastic  play, 

Head  downward,  clinging  to  the  spray. 

Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 

Hurling  defiance  at  vast  death; 

This  scrap  of  valour  just  for  play 

Fronts  the  north-wind  in  waistcoat  grey, 

As  if  to  shame  my  weak  behaviour ; 

I  greeted  loud  my  little  saviour, 

"  You  pet !     What  dost  here  ?  and  what  for  ? 

In  these  woods,  thy  small  Labrador, 

At  this  pinch,  wee  San  Salvador  ! 

What  fire  burns  in  that  little  chest 

So  frolic,  stout,  and  self-possest  ? 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

"  Henceforth  I  wear  no  stripe  but  thine ; 

Ashes  and  jet  all  hues  outshine. 

Why  are  not  diamonds  black  and  grey, 

To  ape  thy  dare-devil  array  ? 

And  I  affirm,  the  spacious  North 

Exists  to  draw  thy  virtue  forth. 

I  think  no  virtue  goes  with  size  ; 

The  reason  of  all  cowardice 

Is,  that  men  are  overgrown, 

And,  to  be  valiant,  must  come  down 

To  the  titmouse  dimension." 

'Tis  good-will  makes  intelligence, 

And  I  began  to  catch  the  sense 

Of  my  bird's  song  :  "  Live  out  of  doors 

In  the  great  woods,  on  prairie  floors. 

I  dine  in  the  sun  ;  when  he  sinks  in  the  sea, 

I  too  have  a  hole  in  a  hollow  tree ; 

And  I  like  less  when  Summer  beats 

With  stifling  beams  on  these  retreats, 

Than  noontide  twilights  which  snow  makes 

With  tempest  of  blinding  flakes. 

For  well  the  soul,  if  stout  within, 

Can  arm  impregnably  the  skin  ; 

And  polar  frost  my  frame  defied, 

Made  of  the  air  that  blows  outside." 

With  glad  remembrance  of  my  debt, 
I  homeward  turn  ;  farewell,  my  pet. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

When  here  again  thy  pilgrim  comes, 
He  shall  bring  store  of  seeds  and  crumbs. 
Doubt  not,  so  long  as  earth  has  bread, 
Thou  first  and  foremost  shalt  be  fed ; 
The  Providence  that  is  most  large 
Takes  hearts  like  thine  in  special  charge, 
Helps  who  for  their  own  need  are  strong, 
And  the  sky  doats  on  cheerful  song. 
Henceforth  I  prize  thy  wiry  chant 
O'er  all  that  mass  and  minster  vaunt ; 
For  men  mis-hear  thy  call  in  Spring, 
As  't  would  accost  some  frivolous  wing, 
Crying  out  of  the  hazel  copse,  The-be  ! 
And,  in  Winter,  Chic-a-dee-dee  ! 
I  think  old  Caesar  must  have  heard 
In  northern  Gaul  my  dauntless  bird, 
And,  echoed  in  some  frosty  wold, 
Borrowed  thy  battle-numbers  bold. 
And  I  will  I  write  our  annals  new, 
And  thank  thee  for  a  better  clew; 
I,  who  dreamed  not  when  I  came  here 
To  find  the  antidote  of  fear, 
Now  hear  thee  say  in  Roman  key, 
I     Feni,  vidi,  vici. 

RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


THE  OAK 

LIVE  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old, 
Like  yon  oak, 
Bright  in  spring, 

Living  gold  ; 

Summer-rich 

Then  ;  and  then 
Autumn-changed, 
Soberer-  hued 

Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 

Fallen  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 

Naked  strength. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


"THE  WHAUPS" 

BLOWS    the  wind   to-day,  and  the  sun  and   the   rain 

are  flying  — 

Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and  now, 
Where  about  the  graves  of  martyrs  the  whaups  are 

crying, 

My  heart  remembers  how  ! 

5 


ALL  HIS  LEAVES 

FALLEN  AT  LENGTH, 
LOOK,  HE  STANDS, 
TRUNK  AND  BOUGH, 

NAKED  STRENGTH. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Grey,  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places, 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant,  red-wine  moor, 

Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  homes  of  the  silent  vanished 

races, 
And  winds,  austere  and  pure  ! 

Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in  dying, 

Hills  of  home  !  and  I  hear  again  the  call — 
Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  pee-wees 

crying, 
And  hear  no  more  at  all. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 

THE  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again  !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood, 
This  populous  village  !    Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings-on  of  life, 

9 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  O  !  how  oft, 

How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  /  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fairday, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things,  I  dreamt, 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams  ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book  : 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 


10 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike ! 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !     For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thoUj  my  babe !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags  :  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 

ii 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 

Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 

Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eave-drops  fall 

Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 

Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


NIGHT 

MYSTERIOUS  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  goodly  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

But  through  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came  : 

And  lo  !  Creation  broadened  to  man's  view  ! 

Who  could  have  guessed  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  ?  or  who  divined, 

When  bud  and  flower  and  insect  lay  revealed, 

Thou  to  such  countless  worlds  had'st  made  us  blind  ? 

Why  should  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  Light  conceals  so  much,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

JOSEPH  BLANCO  WHITE 

12 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

UNDER  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 

Here  shall  we  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 

And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

As  Ton  Like  It,  n.  v. 


FAIRY  LAND 

OVER  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

I  do  wander  everywhere, 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere ; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green  ; 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see  ; 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savours ; 

I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Midsummer  Night's  'Dream,  n.  i. 


WHEN  DAISIES  PIED 

WHEN  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men  ;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo  ! 

Cuckoo,  Cuckoo  !     O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  ! 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks  and  daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Mocks  married  men  ;  for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo  ! 

Cuckoo,  Cuckoo  !     O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear. 

Loves  Labour's  Lost,  v.  ii. 


WHEN  ICICLES  HANG  BY  THE  WALL 

WHEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 
And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipp'd,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whit ! 

To-who  ! — a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whit ! 

To-who  ! — a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Loves  Labour's  Lost,  v.  ii. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

THE  FAIRY  LIFE 
1 

WHERE  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry  : 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough  ! 

The  Tempest,  v.  i. 

II 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have  and  kiss'd 
The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 
Bow-wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark  : 

Bow-wow. 

Hark,  hark  !     I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

The  Tempest  y  i.  ii. 


16 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


EARLY  SPRING 

ONCE  more  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  domes  the  red-plow'd  hills 

With  loving  blue ; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  throstles  too. 

Opens  a  door  in  Heaven ; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  pass. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds, 
And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods ; 
The  stars  are  from  their  hands 

Flung  thro'  the  woods, 

The  woods  with  living  airs 

How  softly  fann'd, 
Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 

All  down  the  sand, 
Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 
17 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


O  follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season's  lure ! 
O  heart,  look  down  and  up 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snowdrops,  pure ! 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 

Thro'  some  slight  spell, 
A  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 

Some  far  blue  fell, 
And  sympathies,  how  frail, 

In  sound  and  smell ! 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirr'd, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 

From  word  to  word. 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 

Makes  all  things  new, 
And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 

The  flower  with  dew ; 
The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 

The  poets  too. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


18 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY 

ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN   WITH  THE   PLOUGH 
IN  APRIL,  1786 

WEE,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou  's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi>  spreckled  breast ! 
When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

I9  B 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun 

shield ; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun- ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust ; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  Life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred  ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

20 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Such  fate  to  suffering  Worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink ; 
Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruined,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

ROBERT  BURNS 


21 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 

1  DO  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 
In  wandering  by  the  sea; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me. 

In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 
Of  skirting  hills  to  lie, 
Bound  in  by  streams  which  give  and  take 
Their  colours  from  the  sky ; 
23 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 
Or  down  the  oaken  glade, 
O  what  have  I  to  do  with  time  ? 
For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woebegone 
Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 
Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 
And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad, 
But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 
The  woods  at  heart  are  glad. 

There  the  great  Planter  plants 
Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 
The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns  ; 

Through  times  that  wear  and  forms  that  fade, 

Immortal  youth  returns. 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 
The  pigeon  in  the  pines, 
The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 
Which  no  false  art  refines. 


DOWN  IN  YON  WATERY  NOOK, 
WHERE  BEARDED  MISTS  DIVIDE. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 

Where  bearded  mists  divide, 

The  grey  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew 

The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft,  in  secret  veins  of  air, 
Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song, 
O,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 
Though  they  to  all  belong ! 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 
The  fancies  found  in  books ; 
Leave  authors'  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 
To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 

Oblivion,  here  thy  wisdom  is, 
Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares ; 
For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


29 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

"  MY  HEART  LEAPS  UP  WHEN  I  BEHOLD 

MY  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


THE   SANDPIPER 

ACROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I ; 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 
Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky  : 

Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 
Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
30 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 
I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly. 

As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach- 
One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery ; 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong ; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye  : 
Staunch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky  : 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 

CELIA  THAXTER 


DAFFODILS 

I  WANDER'D  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  Jake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 
33 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced  ;  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought  : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


HOME-THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD 

OH,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

35 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 

That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING 


TO   DAFFODILS 

FAIR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  : 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 
Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 
36 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 


+ 


THE  THROSTLE 

"  SUMMER  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again," 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new !  "     Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

"  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again,' 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 
37 


FAIR  DAFFODILS. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year ! " 
O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 

Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 
And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


TO  THE  CUCKOO 

HAIL,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  spring  ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat. 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear  ; 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands. 

Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year  ! 

O,  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee  ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 

JOHN  LOGAN 


TO   A   SKYLARK 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest 

42 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is 

overflow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

43  c 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the 

view : 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 

thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass  : 

44 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 

I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

45 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not  : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


46 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


CORINNA'S   GOING   A-MAYING 

GET  up,  get  ap  for  shame  !     The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air : 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree  ! 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow'd  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  drest ; 
Nay  !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
When  as  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair  : 

Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept. 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
47 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Till  you  come  forth  !     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying : 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and,  coming,  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park, 
Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees  :  see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch  :  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove ; 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't  ? 
Come,  we'll  abroad  :  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May, 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying  ; 

But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth  ere  this  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream, 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept  and  woo'd,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth  : 
Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
48 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd :  yet  we're  not  a-Maying  ! 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime  ; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  ; 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

ROBERT  HERRICK 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING 

I  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 
49 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  green  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths  ; 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  : — 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 

To  catch  the  breezy  air, 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 

What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


X        X     x 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


ODE  TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 

dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 
5* 


S 


r 


/          /      s 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick   for 

home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  tell  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 

Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
53 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

JOHN  KEATS 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 
54 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


THE   RHODORA 

ON   BEING   ASKED,  WHENCE   IS  THE   FLOWER  ? 

IN  May,  when  sea- winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 

55 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay  ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew  : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought 
you. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


THE  GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 

To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays  ; 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 

Crown'd  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 

Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 

To  weave  the  garlands  of  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear  ? 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 

In  busy  companies  of  men. 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 

Only  among  plants  will  grow  ; 
Society  is  all  but  rude 

To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name  : 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed 

How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed ! 
Fair  trees  !  where  s'e'er  your  bark  I  wound, 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat, 

Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase, 

Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 

Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 

Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ! 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head  ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 

Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine  ; 

57 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 

Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 

Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 

Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness  ; 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 

Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state 

While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 

To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 

To  live  in  paradise  alone. 
58 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee 

Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 

Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ? 

ANDREW  MARVELL 


TO  THE  DANDELION 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride  uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

59  D 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy  ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time  : 
Not  in  mid- June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  in  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee  ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

60 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

With  news  from  Heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  Nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  Heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 
61 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 


X 


s/ 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river  ; 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


63 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

ETHEREAL  minstrel !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 

Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 

[To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler  ! — that  love-prompted  strain 
— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring.] 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 
Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


64 


V 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


THE   MOCKING  BIRD 
(FROM  "OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE") 

ONCE  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air,  and  the  Fifth- 
month  grass  was  growing, 

Up  this  seashore  in  some  briars, 

Two  feathered  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 

And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with 
brown. 

And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 

And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouched  on  her  nest, 
silent,  with  bright  eyes, 

And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never 
disturbing  them, 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

"  Shine  !  shine  !  shine  ! 
Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  Sun ! 
While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

"  Two  together ! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together." 

65 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

Maybe  killed,  unknown  to  her  mate, 
One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouched  not  on  the  nest, 
Nor  returned  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appeared  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer 

weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 
Or  flitting  from  briar  to  briar  by  day, 
I  saw,  I  heard  at   intervals   the  remaining   one,   the 

he-bird, 
The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

"  Blow  !  blow  !  blow  ! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore  ; 
I  wait  and  I  wait,  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me." 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glistened, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scalloped  stake, 
Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 
Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  called  on  his  mate, 
He  poured  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men 

know. 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know, — 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasured  every  note, 

66 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach 

gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with 

the  shadows, 
Recalling   now  the   obscure   shapes,   the   echoes,   the 

sounds  and  sights  after  their  sorts, 
The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly 

tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 

Listened  long  and  long. 

Listened  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you,  my  brother. 

"  Soothe  !  soothe  !  soothe  ! 
Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 
And   again   another   behind   embracing   and    lapping, 

every  one  close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

"  Low  hangs  the  moon  ;  it  rose  late, 
It  is  lagging — O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with 
love. 

"  O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

"  O  night !  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among 

the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing   I    see   there   in   the 

white  ? 

67 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

"  Loud  !  loud  !  loud  ! 
Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love ! 
High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves ; 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 
You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

"  Low-hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 
O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 
O  moon  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

"  Land  !  land  !  O  land  ! 
Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think  you  could  give  me 

my  mate  back  again,  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I 

look. 

"  O  rising  stars ! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with 
some  of  you. 

"  O  throat !  O  trembling  throat ! 
Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere ! 
Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth  ; 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I 
want. 

"  Shake  out,  carols ! 
Solitary  here — the  night's  carols  ! 
Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  Death's  carols ! 
Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon ! 

68 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

O  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into 

the  sea ! 
O  reckless,  despairing  carols  ! 

"  But  soft !  sink  low ; 
Soft !  let  me  just  murmur  ; 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea  ; 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding 

to  me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen  ; 
But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come 
immediately  to  me. 

"  Hither,  my  love  ! 
Here  I  am  !  here  ! 

With  this  just-sustained  note  I  announced  myself  to  you; 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

"  Do  not  be  decoyed  elsewhere  ! 
That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind — it  is  not  my  voice  ; 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray  ; 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

"  O  darkness  !  O  in  vain ! 
O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

"  O  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping 

upon  the  sea ! 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea ! 
O  throat !  O  throbbing  heart ! 
And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

69 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

"  O  past !  O  happy  life  !  O  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  ! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me ! 
We  two  together  no  more." 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous 

echoing, 
With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly 

moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  grey  and  rustling, 
The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping, 

the  face  of  the  sea  almost  touching, 
The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his 

hair  the  atmosphere  dallying, 
The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last 

tumultuously  bursting, 
The    aria's    meaning,    the    ears,    the    soul,    swiftly 

depositing, 

The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 
The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 
The   undertone,   the   savage   old   mother    incessantly 

crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some 

drown'd  secret  hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 

WALT  WHITMAN 
7° 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


SONG  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES" 

THE  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  : 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world  ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING 


SUMMER  DAWN 

PRAY  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 

Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 
The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips, 

Faint  and  grey  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen,  betwixt 

the  cloud-bars, 
That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn  : 

Patient  and  colourless,  though  Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn, 

The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises ;  the  roses  are  dun  ; 

7' 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn, 
Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 
Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 
Over  the  tender,  bow'd  locks  of  the  corn. 

WILLIAM    MORRIS. 


TO   THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me  ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek  ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June  ! 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 
72 


THE     POETRY    OF    NATURE 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall ; 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  the  colour  of  romance  ; 
And  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers  ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavoury  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 
But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap,  and  daffodils, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
73 


LONG  DAYS,  AND  SOLID  BANKS  OF  FLOWERS. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  briar-roses,  dwelt  among  : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  north-western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep  ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


77 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

THE   BAREFOOT   BOY 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace  ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy, — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 
Prince  thou  art, — the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
78 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  grey  hornet  artisans  ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy, — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
79 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread  ; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  grey  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frog's  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 
80 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 


81 


THE   EVENING   WIND 

SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day  ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 

Roughening   their   crests,  and  scattering  high  their 
spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.     I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

83 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Nor  I  alone, — a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretched  beyond  the 
sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade ;  go  forth, — 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars ;  and 

rouse 
The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs, 
The  strange,  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his  breast. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  where  the  o'ershadowing  branches  sweep  the 
grass. 

Stoop  o'er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone, 

That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  willows  stray, 
And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 

May  think  of  gentle  souls  who  passed  away, 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown  ; 

Sent  forth  from  heaven  along  the  sons  of  men, 

And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 

85 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 

His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 

And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 

Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 
Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 

With  sounds  and  sense  from  all  thy  mighty  range, 
Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once  more ; 

Sweet  odours  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  homesick  mariner  of  the  shore ; 

And,  listening  to  the  murmur,  he  shall  deem 

He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON  THE  BURN 

THE  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn  ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa' ; 
The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 

Set  up  their  e'ening  ca'. 
Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird's  sang 

Rings  through  the  briary  shaw, 
While,  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 

Around  the  castle  wa'. 
86 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Beneath  the  golden  gloamin'  sky 

The  mavis  mends  her  lay  ; 
The  redbreast  pours  his  sweetest  strains 

To  charm  the  lingering  day  ; 
While  weary  yeldrins  seem  to  wail 

Their  little  nestlings  torn, 
The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 
The  honeysuckle  and  the  birk 

Spread  fragrance  through  the  dell. 
Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 

Of  mirth  and  revelry, 
The  simple  joys  that  nature  yields 

Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL 


BRIGHT  STAR  !     WOULD  I  WERE 
STEADFAST  AS  THOU  ART 

BRIGHT  star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art- 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 

8? 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

JOHN  KEATS 


DAYBREAK 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me !  " 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake  1  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow ;  the  day  is  near." 

88 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 
"Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"  Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN 

GLOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad-cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 

Emerald  twilights, — 

Virginal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When   lovers  pace   timidly  down  through  the  green 

colonnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 

The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn ; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire, — 
Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

89 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 

leaves, — 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul 

that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good  ; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the  vine, 
While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long 

did  shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in 

mine; 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a- wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  with  the  wood-aisle 

doth  seem. 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  soul  of 

the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I 

know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass 

within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
90 


THE     POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought 

me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but 

bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnameable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  afraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  grey  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 

dawn, 

For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest-dark  : — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favour — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land !) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 

By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 
Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shim- 
mering band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to 

the  folds  of  the  land. 

Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the 
beach-lines  linger  and  curl 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows 

the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  grey  looping 

of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the 

woods  stands  high  ? 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky  ! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  broad 

in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light 

or  a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 
Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-with- 
holding and  free 

Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 
the  sea  ! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the 
sun, 

Ye  spread  and   span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath 
mightily  won 

92 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  1  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God  : 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies : 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God  : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  of 

within 
The   range   of  the   marshes,   the   liberal   marshes  of 

Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh  :  lo,  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast  :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must 

be: 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that 

flow 

Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and 

the  low-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow, 
93 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  ! 

The  creeks  overflow  :  a  thousand  rivulets  run 

'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod  ;  the  blades  of  the  marsh- 
grass  stir ; 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward 
whirr ; 

Passeth,  and  all  is  still ;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 

And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height ; 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters' 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 

SIDNEY  LANIER 


94 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl  ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 
That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 
Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

95  F 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings  : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


EACH  AND  ALL 

LITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down  ; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm  ; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

95 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbour's  creed  has  lent. 
All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even  ; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky  ;— 
He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home  ; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 
The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best-attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir, 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage  ;— 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth ; 

97 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth  "  : — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs  ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath  ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs  ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity  ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird  ; — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


IT  IS  A  BEAUTEOUS  EVENING,  CALM 
AND  FREE 

IT  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

98 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Dear  Child  !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 

And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US 

THE  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 

The  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers  ; 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
99 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


TINTERN  ABBEY 

FIVE  years  have  past ;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters  !  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur. — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  a  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 

These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 

'Mid  groves  and  copses.     Once  again  I  see 

These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little  lines 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild  :  these  pastoral  farms, 

Green  to  the  very  door  ;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 

Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 

With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 

Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 

The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 

IOO 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime ;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh  !  how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 

JOI 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye !  thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 

And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 

While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 

Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills  ;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  Nature  led  :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  Nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasure  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thoughts  supplied,  nor  any  interest 

102 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur  ;  other  gifts 

Have  followed  ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains  ;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

103 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  : 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ;  thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend  ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh  !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister  !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk  ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee  :  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure  ;  when  thy  mind 

104 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ;  oh  !  then, 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations  !     Nor,  perchance, — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together  ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service  :  rather  say 

With  warmer  love — oh  !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


105 


ODE   TO   EVENING 

IF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-hair'd  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  : 
107 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing ; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May,  not  unseemly,  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallow'd  pile, 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam 
109 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  eve ! 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ; 
Or  winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 
Shall  fancy,  friendship,  science,  rose-lipp'd  health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favourite  name ! 

WILLIAM  COLLINS 


no 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


TEARS,   IDLE  TEARS 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign' d 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more ! 

LORD  TENNYSON 


in 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


THE   LIGHT   OF   STARS 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh  no  !  from  that  blue  tent  above 

A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

O  star  of  strength  !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 


I  12 


tf 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 
I  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 
Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 
And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves  run  ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

113  c 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?     Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

JOHN  KEATS 
114 


SONG 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 
"5 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death  ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


TO   A   MOUSE 

WEE,  sleekit,  cowrin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  not  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 

Wi'  murdering  pattle  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion 

An'  fellow  mortal  ! 
117 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss't ! 

Thy  wee-bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
And  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane 

O'  f°ggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  win's  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
118 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men, 

Gang  aft  agley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 

ROBERT  BURNS 


TO  THE   FRINGED  GENTIAN 

THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  coloured  with  the  heavens'  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 
119 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


SEAWEED 

WHEN  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks  : 

From  Bermuda's  reefs  ;  from  the  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

120 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  erelong 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavour 

That  for  ever 

Wrestle  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart  ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depart. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


AUTUMN 

I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ; 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  summer  ?  —  With  the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  south, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

122 


</ 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ? — Away,  away, 
On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  summer  ? — In  the  west, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her  flow'rs 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 

Where  is  the  pride  of  summer, — the  green  prime,- 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ? — Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm ;  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, — and  one  upon  the  old  oak-tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ? — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 

The  squirrel  gloats  o'er  his  accomplish'd  hoard, 
The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with  ripe 
grain, 

And  honey  bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells. 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 

"3 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Alone,  alone, 

Upon  a  mossy  stone, 

She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  of  a  love-rosary  ; 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far-away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  grey  upon  the  grey. 

O  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair ; 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ; — 
There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 
To  make  her  bower, — and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's, — she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light ; 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  for  her  bowl ; 
Enough  of  fear,  and  shadowy  despair, 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul ! 

THOMAS  HOOD 


124 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

THE   DEATH   OF   THE   FLOWERS 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing   winds,   and   naked   woods,  and  meadows 

brown  and  sear. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves 

lie  dead  ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's 

tread ; 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs 

the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the 

gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that 
lately  sprang  and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sister- 
hood ? 

Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of 
flowers 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good 
of  ours. 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  Novem- 
ber rain 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones 
again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  briar-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer 
glow; 

125 


HEAPED  IN  THE  HOLLOWS  OF  THE  GROVE, 
THE  AUTUMN  LEAVES  LIE  DEAD. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

But  on  the  hills  the  golden -rod,  and  the  aster  in  the 
wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn 
beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls 
the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  up- 
land, glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such 

days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all 

trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 

no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty 

died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my 

side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests 

cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so 

brief : 

129 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend 

of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the 

flowers. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill: 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  oh,  hear  ! 

130 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commo- 
tion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst  :  Oh,  hear  ! 


Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  Oh,  hear  ! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  incontrollable !  if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision ;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !     I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee  :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

132 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 

Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !     O  wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led, 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the  floor, 
Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 

133 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which, though  more  splendid, may  not  please  him  more; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  playthings  one  by  one,  and  by  the  hand 

Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 

How  far  the  unknown   transcends  the  what  we 
know. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


THE   FIRST    SNOWFALL 

THE  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new-roofed  with  Carrara 
Came  Chanticleer's  mufHed  crow, 

The  stiff  rails  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds, 
Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a  little  headstone  stood ; 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 
As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?  " 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snowfall, 
And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 

That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  that  renewed  our  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 
"  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall !  " 
'35 


HEAPING  FIELD  AND  HIGHWAY 
WlTH  A  SILENCE  DEEP  AND  WHITE. 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her ; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


INFLUENCE  OF   NATURAL  OBJECTS 

IN  CALLING  FORTH  AND  STRENGTHENING 

THE  IMAGINATION  IN  BOYHOOD  AND 

EARLY  YOUTH 

WISDOM  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 

Thou  Soul,  that  art  the  Eternity  of  thought ! 

And  giv'st  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 

And  everlasting  motion  !  not  in  vain, 

By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 

Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 

The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 

Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  Man  ; 

But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 

With  life  and  nature ;  purifying  thus 

The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 

Both  pain  and  fear, — until  we  recognise 

A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.  In  November  days, 
When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valleys  made 

139 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome ;  among  woods 
At  noon  ;  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  homeward  I  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine  : 
Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage-windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons  :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us ;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture  !     Clear  and  loud 
The  village-clock  tolled  six — I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home. — All  shod  with  steel 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle  :  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ;  while  far-distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars, 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

140 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star; 
Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


THE   SNOWSTORM 

ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farmhouse  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 

141 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 

Come,  see  the  north  wind's  masonry. 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry  evermore 
Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door. 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage,  naught  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs  ;  and  at  the  gate 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring,  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 
¥ 
SONNET 

THAT  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold — 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

142 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west  ; 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes   thy  love  more 
strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND 
(FROM  "AS  YOU   LIKE  IT") 

BLOW,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  : 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

H3  i 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember' d  not. 

Heigh-ho  !  sing,  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead  ; 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights  ;  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 
On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one,  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills, 

JOHN  KEATS 
144 


Nsi 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 

FULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter-snow, 

And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing : 

Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 
'45 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 


He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim  ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 
H7 


THE    POETRY    OF    NATURE 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low : 
^Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

LORD  TENNYSON 


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